Torpe” was the word that came to mind when my daughter, Isabel, who turns 16 in a month, first told me about her crush. “Mom, he’s like so cute and so smart and so nice but he doesn’t, like, talk or anything.”
“He’s mute?” I blurted, slightly shocked.
“No, of course not. He’s just like, you know, shy maybe? I don’t really know,” she mumbled.
“Is he nice, like, nice — as in, nice to you?” I said, attempting my best impression of a garden-variety modern teen, who have singlehandedly mutated the word “like” into something of a joker (in playing card parlance) that can stand for pretty much anything the user desires. I was going for the “silly” effect to call her attention to the need for speech overhaul but it all fell flat because I simply managed to sound exactly like her, which was perfectly fine.
“He’s so nice, Mom, like, he opens doors, leans back so I can see the board well. He really, like, listens when people talk and nods to show, like, he isn’t spacing out. He’s a jock too, like, he’s good at sports and he, like, plays guitar. He’s in a band.”
“He sounds great already,” I said.
“He really is, Mom. But he, like, doesn’t say much. It’s just, like, ‘hi’ and ‘bye,’ even if he’s, like, most of the time there.”
Just the way I like it and I hope he stays that way for the next 10 years, I thought, but not intending to tell her so much in words.
She has, since that first time some months ago, been coming to me for regular updates on her non-conversations and non-engagements with this nice boy, swooning about what a true gentleman he is and blah, blah, blah. My perennial comment is, “So he hasn’t grown a tongue yet?” to which she answers, “No, Mom, not yet.” And only then do I heave a sigh of relief, always muttering to myself, “Good.. we’re not in a rush to grow that tongue anyway,” something she doesn’t appreciate.
“Torpe is the word for that, you know,” I said to her just yesterday, as the same subject crept up in a conversation she was having with my older daughter, Kat, who is home briefly from Sydney.
“Huh?” Isabel grunted, clearly lost.
Torpe, according to urbandictionary.com, means “being too shy to pursue amorous desires.” It is a direct translation from its Spanish origin (spelled exactly the same) meaning “slow, dimwitted and clumsy,” which, I conclude, is what it renders young, inexperienced boys caught in the presence of their “crush.”
After I had explained this all to her, she shrieked, saying, “That means he likes me!”
Duh, I thought. It doesn’t take Einstein to figure that one out, but of course, for the 16-year-old tender ego, a misreading of something like this can mean Armageddon.
My older daughter Kat said to her, “Sis, enjoy it. This part — this actual limbo-meets-twilight-zone part between two people — is the best. Leave it be. Once that’s over, it’s gone for good. Can’t go back there. Stay there!”
It wasn’t what she wanted to hear. “But… but...” she stuttered.
“Kat’s right,” I butted in. “Torpe is good. It’s very good. Freeze-frame that — two years, at least — because that truly is the best part,” I said because I had another agenda and it definitely wasn’t for her to enjoy this torpe stage of second-guessing and delighting in the littlest of signs that the object of her interest exhibits.
“What do you mean?” Isabel asked, confused.
“Well, there’s confident and then there’s confident,” Kat explained. Men being torpe doesn’t necessarily mean they lack self-confidence or they are engot, to use Mom’s favorite word. It just means they’re not ready. They’re analyzing the situation, scoping the landscape, you know, assessing their chances. They’re strategizing. I call that careful and deliberate, not torpe.”
“Kat’s right,” I said, quick on the draw. “Let’s not let him grow that tongue until the time is right — until it’s perfect. Two years from now would be good.” But none of them was listening to me. None of the kids do nowadays, come to think of it. It makes me wonder.
Kat continued, as though I weren’t there and hadn’t say anything. “Remember, Is, there was this one guy you told us about, the one who was so gregarious: bubbly, loud, always everywhere at once, always making you laugh and talking you up. Do you remember what you said about him after a while? You said, ‘He turned stupid. He became, like, a showoff and liked too many girls, one after the other, even overlapping.’ See? Would you rather have that or this one that Mom calls torpe — the good kind?”
“Torpe any day,” Isabel answered.
Thank heavens for Kat, sparing me from having to sermonize about the merits of torpe. Somehow siblings are more effective in matters like this — it’s the peer thing, I suspect. Parents, by virtue of rank or generation or both, disqualify themselves from efficacy as messengers of such concerns.
Consider this scenario: whether in social or business situations, two men of opposing personalities. One is the in-your-face, gregarious, charming, life-of-the party type; the other, the more introspective, quiet, deliberate, soft-spoken type. Yes, it is easy to fall prey to stereotyping but these off-the-hip assessments lend considerable insight into personality readings.
Many say that loud, larger-than-life types are the way they are because of a need to fill a perceived shortcoming. In other words, it is most often a telltale sign of a lack of self-confidence more than it an indicator of a healthy ego. The high-octane performance types are often just seeking a validation they will constantly crave.
The quiet ones, on the other hand, are said to be so comfortable in their own skin, not needing to prove anything to anyone, that they are not compelled to summon their inner Cirque de Soleil performer to make an impression on the world at large.
There is that soothing Zen feeling one finds in the company of quiet, self-effacing men. Their deliberateness of speech and action seem to signal a discerning mind that has carefully weighed and tempered all thoughts and reactions before giving them voice or action. Could it also be this economy of words and movements lends an air of mystery and sense of mastery to this type of men, one thing that draws people in and keeps them captivated?
There is much to be said for the joie de vivre of gregarious men and the entertainment value that comes with it. But it is the gravitas in the unobtrusive ones that ultimately moves people.
In this sense, torpe is good — very good.
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Thank you for your letters. You may reach me at cecilelilles@yahoo.com.